The Bitterest Choice
by Bamboozlepig
Summary: Formerly entitled "Pete's Lessons, Junior's Leash, and Marrying the Tree". Revised into a oneshot from Pete's POV for now. Note in story explains why. Consider it a "missing scene" fic to my other story "Of Sorrow & Honor".


**DISCLAIMER: **_Adam-12_ is the property of Universal/MarkVII, no copyright infringement intended with the publication of this piece. The picture used for the cover comes from the cover of the season 5 dvd set of the series. **A****LL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION. This story may contain graphic language/violence/adult situations, therefore reader discretion is advised. **This story was originally supposed to capture the dual points-of-view from both Pete and Jim as they experienced Jim's first shift as a police officer and Pete's final shift as a police officer in the premiere episode of "Adam-12" called "The Impossible Mission", taking the reader into each man's mind in the hours before, during, and after that shift and episode events. However, the muse has not cooperated as far as updates to this story and in re-reading Jim's section, I find that I don't really like how I wrote his POV, it doesn't feel as finished as Pete's POV does and I'm not thrilled with how I portrayed Jim. But Pete's section works well and I have no issues with it, so I decided to delete Jim's section and send it back to the drawing board, revising the story into a oneshot in Pete's voice only and with a different title (although I do still hold full rights to the original title and deleted chapter). This doesn't mean I've given up on this story or the ideas I had for it, I will hopefully still get the piece written as I'd planned, but because my free time to write and my creative energies are still on the low side, I'd rather the piece stand as a oneshot...maybe consider it a missing scene fic to my other story in the Howie Parker trio, "Of Sorrow and Honor". I sincerely apologize for any inconvenience this has caused anyone who has been reading the story.

THE BITTEREST CHOICE

**1968**

"I AM making the right decision, aren't I?" I ask the man, glancing down at the leather-foldered badge I hold in my hands before raising my eyes back to his, searching his gaze for the untold assurance that I am indeed making the right decision. He stares back at me with a set of tired green eyes that are ringed with dark circles, mouth drawn down in a thin-lipped frown, brows knitted together in permanently etched concern. Studying me carefully, he tries a wolfish smile, but the movement clearly feels foreign to him, as if he's forgotten how to smile, so he drops the grin, his mouth settling back into a downward twist that feels much more at home on his face. With a sigh, I slip the leather folder into the pocket of my shirt and turn away from the mirror then, shrugging…if Pete Malloy ain't meant to smile anymore, he ain't meant to smile anymore, I guess. And besides, I can't really imagine wanting to do so anyway…

At least not in THIS lifetime any more.

But it will play hell on my romantic life, I'm sure, since my smile was part of the overall patented Pete Malloy seductive look, my charm guaranteed to make any female, young or old, swoon into my arms with just a sultry smirk and a smoldering gaze. "My romantic life, that's fucking rich," I snort dryly to myself as I consider how Donna, my latest flame, is no longer speaking to me now, unable to understand me and what I needed over these last two weeks…hell, not even _I _understood me and what I needed, except I knew I didn't crave the closeness she thought I should want, trying to share with me in my sorrow, offering me comfort and solace in not only her expressions of sympathy, but also through her body and the physical release that sex gave me. Not that I didn't gladly avail myself of THAT offering…her words of sympathy were useless utterances that fell on my deaf ears, but her body…her body I took in angry passion, using her until the two of us were physically spent, wrung out and panting, then I'd be unable to stomach her closeness and clinginess and sympathetic words any further and I'd force her to leave my apartment so that I could be alone…

Alone to think, alone to remember, alone to drink myself into oblivion, the mind-numbing escape offered to me by the judicious applications of Jack Daniels that I poured down me, dulling me, making me feel no pain, for I'd already felt an entire fucking lifetime of it in that goddamned dirty little alleyway fourteen days ago and I didn't need to feel it anymore. And while the booze stopped me from feeling anything, it didn't let me forget, since every night I'd fall into bed, drunk off my ass, passing out into blackness that would soon become nightmares; horrific dreams that always ended up with someone I knew lying dead in that alleyway with the icy rain slashing down in their death-slackened face, washing their lifeblood away as it seeped out of their body through the hole blown in their chest. Sometimes it was my partner lying there, sometimes it was Val or Mac, sometimes it was that kid from the academy track, the same one who was so anxious to get assigned to Central Division, and sometimes…

_Sometimes it was me. _

And too goddamned bad it really WASN'T, either. Woulda saved myself a lot of grief, a lot of anguish, a lot of…a lot of guilt. Guilt's become my brother, my comrade in arms, my crown of thorns, my hair shirt, my cross to carry…whatever pretty little term you want to call the simple fact that I fucked up and a good man is dead because of me. After all, it was my goddamned fault that Howie Parker was murdered, and no one could tell me any different. I was his Training Officer and had been for the eleven months he'd been on the force, charged with the task of teaching him the ropes of the job and keeping him safe from harm, and I'd done fine at it, _just fine_, and the kid was nearing the end of his year-long probationary period under my tutelage, until that awful night two weeks ago in that squalid little alleyway behind a pharmaceutical warehouse. Howie Parker met his death at the hands of a two-bit burglar with a yen for stolen drugs, and I met my own personal hell when I watched him die in front of me, brutally shotgunned down in a blink of an eye, knowing that I failed…I _fucking _FAILED that kid in keeping him safe from harm as his T.O. Because of me, his wife no longer has her husband, his baby daughter no longer has her daddy, and him…he no longer has his life. I cost them EVERYTHING, and despite the fact that the investigation into the case clearly showed no wrongdoing on my part, that the whole incident was nothing more than a goddamned senseless tragedy, merely an accident of us being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I know…I _know…_

_I just as much killed him as the bastard who pulled the trigger_.

"Christ, I need a fucking cigarette," I mutter to myself, turning away from my dresser and crossing the bedroom floor, sitting down on the edge of the bed as I grab up the pack of Marlboros from my nightstand. I tap one out into my fingers, placing it between my lips as I tuck the pack into the pocket of my shirt, in front of the leather folder already there, picking up the gold Zippo lighter atop the nightstand and opening the lid with a practiced flick of my wrist, my thumb rasping across the flywheel and bringing forth the flame that lights the cigarette for me. Drawing the smoke deep into my lungs, I study the elegantly engraved initials on the lighter, _P.J.M.,_ for a moment before slipping the lighter into the same pocket as the cigarettes. The Zippo was a gift from someone I once loved, and while that someone is no longer in my life, the lighter has remained a talisman of sorts, a good luck charm that I've always carried with me, a simple reminder of…well…how _odd_ life can work out sometimes. And a lot of good it did me two weeks ago, when my luck ran out on me like a cheap Tijuana hooker and the five hundred bucks from a sleeping john's wallet.

I grimace…_fuck, I've been reading too much Raymond Chandler again_…although Chandler is the only thing I've been interested in reading right now, the sharp-edged cynicism and world-weariness of Philip Marlowe resounding deeply within me, resonating to the very core of my soul, for I know now of the lonely world in which he inhabits, having entered that world myself. Fiction imitates life, for Marlowe's a ghostly shadow of me, and I am nothing more than a ghostly shadow of myself, and that notion actually makes sense to me in my tired brain. Sighing, I grab up the blue glass ashtray from the nightstand and flop back onto the bed, staring up at the waterstained ceiling, the ashtray resting on my stomach, the smoke from my cigarette drifting aimlessly heavenward. Tapping ash from the end of the cigarette off into the ashtray, I gaze at the hot embered end of it, the ashes a pretty apt metaphor for my life right now, considering how I've vanquished everything into an inferno of flames, raging and howling and weeping at the fickleness of Fate until I could rage and howl and weep no more, then I came to a decision about Fate that's supposed to bring me peace, but instead it's made me feel…

Hollow and empty and ever-so-slightly stunned at my self-betrayal. I never imagined I'd do this to myself, betray myself in such a fashion, yet here I am, doing just that, stabbing myself in my back with the double-edged blade of guilt and sorrow. And it's a helluva lot easier than I ever thought it would be, for instead of dragging myself kicking and screaming down that path of no return, fighting my will, fighting my heart, fighting my soul, I found myself accepting my decision with too much ease and absolutely no hesitation and very little remorse. But, I suppose it's easy to do when your heart isn't in it anymore. It's easier to just say fuck it and throw in the towel, I fought the good fight and now I'm quitting, because there's nothing left here for me but ashes and memories and goddamned aching bitterness that eats acidly at my soul. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, and I'd ride back to that night, ten minutes before I pulled down that alleyway, warning myself of the Fate about to be set into motion, then Baker wouldn't have gotten killed and I wouldn't be feeling so…so…

_Lost_. I wouldn't be feeling so goddamned _lost._ The booze may have temporarily stopped the feelings inside of me, but sober now, they've returned with a vengeance, the screeching harpy triplets of anger and disappointment and sorrow battling for dominance over the lone soldier of guilt…I think they call it 'survivor's guilt'. Why, I don't know, because to survive means to live, and if this is what living will be like for me from here on out, I'm not sure how much more of it I can take.

I stub out the cigarette, rubbing a hand across my forehead, trying to scour away the tension that still prickles there. I'm supposed to be all relaxed and refreshed, having come back from a week's vacation just yesterday, taking Mac and Val's advice and getting the hell outta Dodge, putting as many miles between myself and L.A. as I could stand, fleeing northward to Lake Isabella. And damn it, I shoulda kept going, for each mile that ticked off on the Mustang's odometer was one less mile that bound me to the horror and the sorrow and the absolute hell that had been my life for the last two weeks.

_Better yet, I never shoulda come back._ Forgetting it all is one thing, but escaping it completely is another. Of course, there's no more permanent escape you can avail yourself of, other than Death, and I haven't gotten that far…

Yet_._

I've never been one to consider eating my piece in order to get away from it all, for suicide has never appealed to me, no matter what hell I've endured in my life, but that was then and this is now, and now…now is my own personal Gethsemane, and I can't help but wonder if Jesus Christ ever considered taking his own life when He learned what God had in store for him, but then…then I remember I don't believe in that shit anymore. My religion that was pounded into me by my mother and the Catholic nuns at school fell easily away from me when I was eight, and my dad returned home from the war, changed from a kind and loving man into an abusive, screaming monster that I didn't recognize but quickly learned to hate. It was easy, oh so easy, to pretend I followed the teachings of my faith, for there must always be a Judas goat among the flock of lambs, yet despite my disavowal of the tenets of my religion, I still held fast to some of them. Yeah, I quit worshipping God in church, but I knew He was still up there in Heaven, and I tried to thank Him once in a while to let Him know I appreciated what He did for me. I never doubted His presence, never doubted that He was there, never doubted His reasoning behind things that happened, because I believed…I BELIEVED in the bastard. But then on that night two weeks ago, God decided to take a coffee break, allowing THIS to happen to Howie Parker and…and allowing THIS to happen to ME, the man who never questioned His existence before now, believing like all the other damned sheep that God is great and that He always has His reasons for whatever happens in life.

Now I believe in _nothing_. God can go fuck Himself, as far as I'm concerned. He ceased existing for me when I looked at Howie Parker as he lay crumpled in that alleyway, the icy rain pounding and lashing his face, and found nothing but Death staring back at me from those cold, lifeless eyes, the blue irises already clouding over. Howie was gone the minute that shotgun blast ripped him in half, his soul fleeing his body before it even hit the ground. And I am left to try to deal with it all, and I don't really know how to, because nothing in my training, nothing in the little blue rule book, _nothing_ in my life prior to this has prepared me for watching my partner die right in front of me. He was there one minute, laughing and joking with me in the squad car, then he was gone, and I never got to tell him he WAS a good cop, and that I was proud of him, that I was proud to have him as a friend. Shit, I never even got to say…to say...

_I never really got to say 'I'm sorry' for getting him killed, and that's what hurts the worst._ The words of apology I uttered at his gravesite last night were nothing but cold, empty comfort.

I find myself longing for the crisp burning taste of whiskey and what escape it offers me, but I remember that I dumped the booze down the drain before I left for Lake Isabella, which means I'll have to stop by the liquor store on my way home from work to get some more…because telling myself I no longer needed it was just a whispering lie, a falsity uttered in the heat of the moment, a promise I know I cannot keep, not now, not ever. After all, I am, as it turns out, much my father's son, seeking the empty solace offered by liquor, fulfilling a genetic prophecy that was bequeathed to me by a man with as much anger and bitterness and disappointment as my own, having suffered through his own personal hell during World War II, blotting out the memories of what he saw over there with judicious applications of booze, just as I have tried to do. I'd always prided myself on NOT being like dear old dad, keeping a close eye on my liquor consumption, very aware of my limits, not only due to my job as a cop, but also due to the fact that I deal with the often tragic effects alcohol has on people as part of my duty, and I'd be damned if I ever let myself sink that low, for Pete Malloy was NOTHING like his daddy, he had too much goddamned pride to ever do that.

_And oh how the mighty do fall…with a whimper, not a bang._

Sighing, still lying on my back, I pull the leather folder from my shirt pocket once more, flipping it open to reveal the shiny metal badge that is pinned inside of it. _Policeman_ it reads, in blue letters across the top of the silver shield, with the finely etched gold emblem of city hall beneath the banner. _Los Angeles Police_ is beneath the emblem, along with my badge number, 744. I stare at plastic laminate departmental ID card that resides in the wallet with the badge, my eyes taking in my signature, my serial number, and the black and white picture of me that was taken just at the beginning of this year, when the new photos were taken as they are every year, in order to update our ID's. Wearing a suit and tie, holding the placard that has my serial number on it under my chin as if I'm a common criminal instead of a cop, I look…I look young and innocent yet, still untouched by the tragedy of two weeks ago, and I realize bitterly that I will never again be as young and as innocent as I was five minutes before I made the decision to drive down that goddamned alleyway, five minutes before I watched Howie Parker die in front of me, five minutes before one world I knew forever ended and another began, this one a world of pain and sorrow and rage at the senselessness of it all. Tapping a fingernail against the badge, I run a thumb over the blue-embossed letters that form the word 'policeman', remembering how incredibly proud I was when I had that badge pinned on me for the very first time when I graduated from the Academy seven years ago, how proud I've been to wear it ever since, and how…how ashamed I am now to even consider pinning it on my uniform, unworthy of the honor accorded to me by that gold-and-silver oval shield that I wear on my chest.

My hand strays to the off-duty weapon that is nestled in a leather holster attached to my belt on the left side and I gently slide the gun out, feeling the heft of it in my palm as I study it. Running my fingers over the smooth metal barrel of the snub-nose .38 revolver, I remember when I was a rookie and it seemed like everytime I moved, the goddamned thing would jab me in the gut or the kidney, and while it's second nature to me now when I wear it, back then, I absolutely hated it, especially when chicks I'd date seemed more interested in THAT gun that I wore than the OTHER one. Knowing that the .38 is loaded, I break open the cylinder of it anyway with a satisfying _click_, eyes scanning over the bullets nestled into each chamber, bullets that are ready to do my bidding the moment I pull the trigger, bullets that are ready to save my life, or…

Bullets that are ready to end it so easily if I wish.

I snap the cylinder shut with a flick of my wrist, the smooth wooden grip of the gun warming up in my grasp as the cylinder clicks shut, and I give it a spin, listening to the bullets as they rattle about like tiny little skeleton bones tap-dancing across the floor. Sitting up on the bed, I hold the gun in front of me, the barrel aiming downward as I line drifting dust motes up in the sight. I allow the hand holding the revolver to drop back to my lap, my eyes running over the weapon as if seeing it for the first time…the crisp silver snub-nose of the barrel, the deep whiskey color of the wooden grip, the delicately balanced trigger that my index finger automatically closes over in a rote gesture of memory and experience. I heft the weapon in my hand once more, weighing it, remembering how many pounds of pressure it takes to pull the trigger, wondering if I'd still have the guts to use those pounds of pressure to end someone's life like I've had to a few times in the past…

_Wondering if I'd have the goddamned fucking guts to end my OWN life_.

I sit there silently in my bedroom, revolver in one hand, the badge in the other, the thought of killing myself not new to me over these last few days, becoming increasingly familiar, and actually somewhat pleasant to consider, once I think about it. Sure, it'd be messy as hell, and I'd hate to be the one that found me, but save for a few friends and family, no one would miss me if I were gone. My life, in harsh black and white retrospect, has not mattered much to many, including myself. Taken over the long run, I've done no great heroic deeds, save for a couple of incidents which earned me commendations and ribbons in my lengthy police career, and what are ribbons and commendations but bits of colored fabric and useless words on a sheet of paper. I've written no bestselling books or discovered no amazing cures for the many diseases that plague the human race, nor have I entertained the world through the magic of movies and television or music, making people laugh, making people cry, making people think. No, I've done none of that, living my life mostly for myself, following the notion of _que sera sera_, whatever will be will be, which has always been a good motto to live by, actually. And so's the old Biblical saying of 'an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.'

After all, what better way to avenge Parker's death than to take my own life?

I stare down at the gun with unseeing eyes, my index finger rubbing over the trigger reflexively, as I think best how to do it…head or heart? There's no guarantee either way that I'll be killed, since a bullet can enter one's brain and not kill you, just do some serious fucked-up damage to you that can leave you paraplegic or brain-dead. Of course, I AM a sharpshooter, a Distinguished Expert in fact, the highest shooting honor achievable on the force, which means whatever the hell I'm aiming to shoot at, there's a 99.9% chance that I WON'T miss. "Head or heart?" I ask myself out loud, my voice sounding hollow in my bedroom. I wonder if I do it now, how long they'd miss me not showing up at work before coming to check on me. I wonder who'd come looking too, Val or Mac? Probably Mac, because he has the key to my apartment, given to him so he could get my mail in while I was gone, and he hasn't given it back yet. My friends and family would be heartbroken and devastated that I was gone, but they'd soon get over it, especially in light of how easier life would be if I weren't in it any longer.

Who knew my own personal Gethsemane would be so goddamned hard to endure?

Emotion wells up in my throat, tightening it, and moisture creeps into my eyes for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. I replace the .38 back into its holster at my side and with a shaky intake of breath that sounds oddly like a sob, I swipe at my eyes with the palm of my hand, trying to sweep away the incriminating evidence that Pete Malloy has feelings before they can snail-track down my face. A few tears escape anyway, sneaking out of the corners of my closed eyes and slipping across my temples, wetting them, and I feel as goddamned desolate as I did last night when I stopped off at Baker's gravesite. I cried then, too, a very unbecoming thing for a big tough copper like myself to do, but it was only after I did so that I was able to reach my final decision, a decision that I know is right for me in the end…

At least I'm trying to convince myself that it is, anyway.

Sniffling, I raise my eyes up to the ceiling again, wondering forlornly why the two men I would have expected most in the world to try to talk me out of this decision _didn't_, for when I stopped by the station last night to tell Sergeant Bill MacDonald and Lieutenant Val Moore what I'd planned to do, I had steeled myself for an outcry, a stern lecture, a good sturdy talking-to to convince me that I was making a rash and foolish mistake. But, to my shock and dismay and disappointment, both men accepted my words complacently, offering only a minor protest when I announced my plans, and it hurt like hell, because I wanted them…I NEEDED them to talk me out of it. Val was my training officer when I first came on the force, and I rode with Mac for a good couple of years before he got promoted to sergeant and I got promoted to training officer. It was a pair of friendships that had been firmly forged in seven years ago in the various hells and horrors and occasional hilarity that goes with the job of being a cop, and it was those cast-iron bonds I shared with Val and Mac that I had counted on catching me when I needed it last night, yet all I got was…

_Nothing._ Nothing except a couple of hearty handshakes and a pair of well-wishes for good luck. I'd walked into the watch commander's office last night prepared for battle in defense of my decision, and they'd waved the white flag of surrender instead. Fine friends THEY are, they're getting crossed off my Christmas card list, or at least they WOULD be if I had one, that is. Damn their easy acceptance of my plan anyway. Resentment for them settles into me with a bitter resolve, replacing the sorrow and drying up the tears from my eyes. I wonder acidly if the rest of the guys on the shift tonight will be as accepting too, if they find out what I have planned, and I tell myself that I don't give a damn what they think, no matter what. It's not like I've really cared anyway of what my fellow officers' opinions have been of me the last two weeks, especially considering how much like a goddamned fool I acted like in the locker room, my first day back at the job after Parker's funeral. I'd lashed out then, verbally and physically, in a manner more reminiscent of my father than myself, further proof that I'm following in the old man's footsteps. Still feeling the cool metal snap of the handcuffs that Mac slapped on me to calm me down, I swallow the sour taste that rises in my mouth as I remember my disgraceful breakdown that day, ashamed and angry and disappointed that I allowed myself to lose control like that. I'm not one to wear my heart on my sleeve, having learned since childhood to keep a tight rein on my emotions, hiding them behind a steel-fortress wall topped with razor wire in an effort to protect my soul and my heart and my mind from the horrors and the tragedies of the job.

_But even the strongest steel rusts __**sometimes**__, damn it._

Slipping the leather wallet and badge back into my shirt pocket, I rub at my eyes, glancing at the clock on my bedside, realizing that if I want to get to work a bit early in order to get a certain task done before I start my shift, I need to leave now. I heave myself off of the bed with a grunt, heading out into the living room, checking to make sure that the tails of my shirt cover up the revolver at my side. Satisfied that it's hidden, I grab my yellow windbreaker from the hook near the door, shrugging into it as I pick up my keys from the little wooden stand beneath the hook. I glance over at the black gear bag that is standing alongside the door, awaiting transport to the station, and I start to grab it up, but then I decide to wait and take it in tomorrow, when the day-shifters are working and there's less of a possibility that I'll run into anyone that knows me very well. My eyes land on a white envelope that lies atop the little wooden stand, and I pick it up, running my fingers over the name written on the back. It's unsealed, and I start to lick it to close it, then I halt, my tongue sticking out of my mouth halfway as I realize that once I seal it, it's one more step in making the contents of letter inside of it come true. And despite my resolve to go through with this, I'm not quite ready to seal the letter up just yet. The envelope clutched tightly in my fingers, I cast one last glance around my apartment before slipping out of the door, locking it behind me. I start down the wooden steps to my dark blue Mustang that is parked in the lot below.

Putting the key into the lock and unlocking the door, I cast a glance over the car's exterior, reminding myself that I need to get it to the car wash tomorrow to clean off the grime from my trip up to Lake Isabella. Sliding into the driver's seat, I lay the envelope on the seat next to me, slipping the key into the ignition and turning it, the Mustang's powerful V8 engine grumbling to life with delight. Backing out of my parking spot, I head the car in the direction of the station. The silence in the car, normally so soothing to me, is irritating instead, so I reach over and turn on the radio, just as a song starts up, _The Weight_ by The Band. The lyrics bother me, so with a sigh, I reach over and turn the radio back off. "Stupid song," I mutter, shaking my head, my hands tightening slightly on the steering wheel. For I know that the only one who can carry the load for me is myself…

And the burdens of guilt and sorrow and anger weigh oh so heavily upon me, bowing my soul until I fear it might shatter into a million little pieces, pieces that can never be put back together at heart, either.

* * *

I pull into the lot of Central Division's stationhouse, easing the Mustang into one of the slots, parking next to an unfamiliar blue and white Chevelle and killing the ignition. The Chevelle has never been parked here in the employees' lot before, and I cast a suspicious eye over it, taking in the two dark-haired young men seated in the front seat, looking rather nervous as they carry on what appears to be an earnest conversation. I decide to get out of my car and ask them exactly what business they have here, so I turn to grab the envelope sitting next to me, opening my car door as I do.

**_THUNK!_**

The door of the Chevelle crashes into mine and I jump, quickly yanking my door back to free it. "Hey, watch it, kid!" I yelp angrily at the offender, the kid in the passenger seat of the Chevelle. "Don't ding my car!"

"Sorry!" he apologizes hastily, face reddening in embarrassment as he pulls his door closed so that I can get out of the Mustang.

Seething inwardly at his carelessness, I ignore him as I climb out of my car, giving the door he just dinged a careful inspection, noticing with relief that there's not any damage done to my baby, because if there HAD been, that kid's head woulda rolled across the parking lot in no time flat. With a grimace, I lock the door and slam it shut, the envelope clutched tightly in my fingers. I turn, preparing to give the two kids in the Chevelle a serious tongue-lashing as they climb out of their car, planning on finding out what in the hell they're doing back here in the first place, but then I freeze in shock, for the kid getting out of the passenger side is none other than the kid I ran into at the Academy track a couple of weeks ago, the same kid that was so eager to get Central Division for his rookie year assignment because he'd heard it was a great division to work in. My scrambling brain pukes up his name for me…_Reed, Jim Reed_, and with dawning horror, I realize that in the turmoil of the last two weeks, I'd forgotten that we were due to get two more rookies from the latest batch of Academy grads, and that these two kids must be Central's new babies. Panic grips at me then, plummeting my stomach to my toenails and seizing up my lungs, making me break out in an icy sweat as it occurs to me that in my capacity as one of the only two training officers on this watch, I'll likely be saddled with one of these kids for tonight unless I can make a case to Val to toss the kid to someone else. I mean, surely Val wouldn't expect me to take on a rookie tonight, of ALL nights…would he? I start to send up a prayer asking that he wouldn't, then FUCK, I remember I don't believe in God any longer, so it will do me little good to pray.

The youngster named Reed locks the Chevelle's door and turns to me, flashing me a high-voltage grin, his teeth gleaming white in his tanned face. Built like a tall skinny stork, he has finely chiseled features and bright blue eyes that poke about with natural inquisitiveness, his overall looks as glossily handsome as any movie star's. By contrast, his companion is stockier built, somewhat baby-faced under dark curly hair, but both give off that eager newness that all rookies give off until the end of their first day on the job, after they've experienced the eight, nerve-wracking hours of hell on their shift that leaves them wondering if they're really cut out for this kind of job. Still smiling, Reed begins to offer another apology. "I guess I didn't see you pull in next to…"

"Forget it," I gruff around the choking panic still welled up in my throat, interrupting him with a sharp wave of my hand, the envelope I still clutch fluttering a little in the light breeze. I see a glimmer of recall flashing in his eyes as he apparently also remembers meeting me on the Academy track, but I pretend not to recognize him, turning away with a scowl, shoving a hand into the pocket of my windbreaker and stalking off towards the rear entrance of the station before he can say anything further in greeting. The last thing I need right now is to have to pretend friendliness to a kid I only met once, on a night when I wanted to run like hell from the city and leave everything behind me, on the night before I was due to act as a pallbearer for my former partner. And discovering that the kid is now working in Central for his rookie year, it feels like a cruel little joke God has decided to play on me for not believing in him any longer. I only hope like hell Val takes pity on me and plants the two kids with someone else tonight.

Behind me, Reed and his buddy fall in, following me at a respectful distance, but not so respectful that I can't hear what they're saying about me. "Sheesh, what an ass," the driver of the Chevelle says in a disdainful whisper. "Hope he's not one of our fellow cops on this shift."

"Better yet, hope he's not one of our training officers," Reed replies sotto voce, equally disdainful.

Their comments sting me sharply, making me feel even more miserable than I already do. My face burns with embarrassment and I long to turn around and rip into them, but I bite my tongue, steeling my resolve and settling for giving them a scornful glare over my shoulder that lets them know I've heard every single word they've just said about me. I grab the handle of the grey-painted stationhouse door, yanking it open, fully prepared to let it slam in their faces, but common courtesy takes hold of me at the last minute and I hold it open for them, barely disguising my dismay at doing so.

"Thanks," Reed's friend says to me with a nod. The two of them enter the station, their eyes as wide as schoolkids' are when they take a classroom tour through the station, and it's clear that they're drinking all the wondrous sights and sounds of the station with slack-jawed amazement like they've never been here before, even though I know they had to come in sometime this past week for orientation and to get their paperwork in order. Their bright shiny eagerness eats at me, the panic welling in my throat once more, nausea rising in my gut as my breath leaves my body and refuses to return, and I have to get away from them, away from the bright shiny newness that gleams from them like a freshly minted copper penny, the copper yet untouched and unmarred by the harsh slings and arrows of the job, their wide-eyed eagerness having yet to bear witness all the hell and horror and humor that goes along with being a cop.

And besides, they remind me too much of Parker right now.

Turning away from them once more, I flee down the beige corridor, my footsteps clicking on the tile as I round the corner and out of their sight. I pause then, my heart trip-hammering in my chest as I lean a palm against the cinderblock wall, trembling, my head down as I try to coax oxygen back into my lungs, swallowing hard the lump of terror that still aches in my throat, willing my sourly rolling stomach to stay where it's at, feeling myself break out in an icy sweat again. My head pounds, the familiar ache of a headache taking up residence behind my eyes, so I fish in the pocket of my pants, plucking out the little tin of aspirin I carry with me. I hear the two rookies debating in the hallway around the corner about which way the locker room lies, and I don't want them to see me like this, so I shove open the break room door, hoping like hell that it's empty.

To my relief, it is, and I quickly cross it to get to the sink, setting the envelope I still clutch in my hand down on the counter just long enough for me to open the aspirin tin and shake two tablets out, replacing the tin in my pocket as I grab a styrofoam cup, flipping on the tap to get a drink. Tossing the tablets in my mouth, I wash them down with cool swig of water, wishing like hell it were whiskey instead. Wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, I toss the cup into the trash and pick up the envelope once more. It rattles crisply in my hands as I stare at the name scrawled in black ink in my chicken scratch on the back of it. I know I should go deliver it to the person it's intended for, Captain Don Grant, the man who is the head of Central Division, but when I try to force myself to move towards his office, my knees begin to buckle and I sag weakly into one of the molded orange plastic chairs that sits at a nearby table instead, the envelope dropping from my fingers to land on the white Formica-topped table in front of me.

Drawing in a deep breath and blowing it out with a shaky sigh, I run trembling fingers through my hair, swiping the sweat away from my forehead with a palm, glancing briefly at the coffeepot, but realizing that the way my stomach feels right now, coffee's the last thing I need in it. I look up at the clock on the break room wall and see I still have a few moments to collect myself before I need to go get ready for my shift, so I decide to give the letter one last look-see before sealing the envelope and my fate forever. Gingerly I stretch my fingers out, pinning the envelope to the table and lifting the flap of it, freeing the folded letter that is tucked within. Gently unfolding it, I smooth the single sheet of white paper out before me, trying to focus unseeing eyes on the few lines of words that are written on the paper, the blurring words already familiar to me since I wrote them out last night. Suddenly the door bangs open and the two squabbling rookies burst in, the Reed kid in the lead, the wavy-haired kid right behind him. Startled by their noisy unwanted intrusion into my moments of quiet introspection, I look up with a sharp scowl, hastily slapping a hand over the letter, instinctively protecting the contents of it, for the less people that know what I intend to do tonight, the better. They freeze up in startlement when they spy me, their eyes going slightly wide with something that resembles fear as they clearly remember me as the ogre from the parking lot. "Yes?" I snap, glaring at them with irritation. "Can I help you two with something?"

"Um…we're…we're looking for the break room," the kid named Reed squeaks nervously, his face blushing scarlet with embarrassment.

The other kid promptly whacks him at the back of the head with an open palm. "You mean the LOCKER ROOM, you idiot," he hisses sharply. "We're already IN the break room, dunderhead."

I stare at Tweedledum and Tweedledee for a moment, wondering just how in the hell they managed to get onto the force in the first fucking place if they can get lost on their way to the locker room. They gaze back at me with fearful, if somewhat hopeful expressions, looking very much like a set of earnest little puppies that long for kindness at the hands of strangers. Laughter at their predicament bubbles up inside of me, tickling at my throat and I realize I could be a total ass and send them to the ladies' john, but I decide to cut them a break, remembering how earnest and eager I was as a rookie too, although I never got lost on the way to the locker room. "Locker room's out that door and straight down the end of the hall on your right," I tell them crisply, nodding towards the break room door that's on the other side of the room.

"Okay, thanks!" the youngster named Reed says brightly, flashing me a gleaming smile once more, then he and the other young pup begin to wend their way around the tables to reach the opposite door. Reed accidentally bumps into one of the chairs on his way, the chair screeching loudly, making a raucous farting noise as it scrapes across the floor. Wincing slightly, he gives me an apologetic look. "Uh…sorry," he says timidly.

I just roll my eyes with a weary sigh, shaking my head watching their progress with mild disdain. As klutzy as the Reed kid appears to be, I give him one night out in the field before he winds up shooting himself in the ass with his own service revolver. Suddenly, downright pissiness strikes me and I decide to toss off a little jibe at the two of them. "Hey," I call as they reach the door.

The Reed kid stops, giving me a puzzled look over his shoulder. "Yeah?" he replies cautiously, for clearly he's uneasy in my forbidding presence, which is a good thing to be.

"You two DO know which way's left and which way's right, don'tcha?" I ask sarcastically, allowing myself a cool little smirk to play across my lips.

"Of course," he scoffs with indignation, reddening once more, this time with irritation rather than embarrassment as he's stung into defending himself and the other kid. "Whaddaya think we are, idiots?"

Fighting the urge to laugh once more, I stare at him, pinning him down with my eyes as I let the smirk widen a bit. "I dunno, you tell me, kid," I reply snarkily. "You're the two that are lost and looking for the locker room." I can't help but chuckle at the frowns that cross the faces of the two youngsters in almost carefully choreographed tandem as they realize I've zinged them good. I know I should feel a little bit bad for being so rude to Central's newest babies, but for some reason, I cannot.

Apparently deciding to ignore my little barb, Reed yanks the door open with a look of disgust that he tosses over his shoulder at his buddy. "Oh, I SO do not wanna have him as a T.O.," he mutters sourly.

"Or even a partner," the other kid replies in a whisper I can hear, then the door swings shut on them and I'm left alone in the break room once more.

I return my attention to the letter in front of me, running my fingers across the words written before me, remembering how goddamned hard it was for me to write them last night. My hand strays to the breast pocket of my shirt, my touch lighting for a brief second upon the pack of cigarettes tucked within, then I push them out of the way to grasp the leather folder holding my badge. I pluck it free again, opening it as I lay it on the table next to the letter. The badge casts bright glints of light across the ceiling of the break room, shimmering and gleaming before me, and I put a thumb and forefinger on the leather folder, giving it a spin, watching idly as it revolves, the beams of reflected light bouncing across the walls like a glitter ball at a discotheque, the leather whispering softly upon the table. The folder comes to a halt, the badge facing me neatly. Picking it up, I run a thumb across the embossed blue numbers of 744, the metal still warm from being in contact with my skin through the fabric of my shirt.

"Seven years on the force," I whisper to myself. I wonder to if those two rookies will ever get to seven years, or if they'll wind up being washed out…or worse yet, killed in the line of duty before they even receive their five-year hash mark on their sleeve. "Seven goddamned long years," I mutter. I tilt the folder gently back and forth, letting the sunrays of reflected light skim across the walls and ceiling as I study my badge with something akin to reverence and awe, remembering how fucking proud I was the day it got pinned on my uniform for the very first time, and how fucking proud I've been since then to be accorded the continued honor of wearing it upon my chest each time I've put on the blue dacron. My mind spins me back through the kaleidoscope of my career, the highlights and the lowlights, the triumphs and the tragedies all swirling before me in rapidly flickering images. "Seven goddamned great years," I hoarse out as sudden emotion wells up in my throat, dampening my eyes again, then ashamed, I glance at the door, hoping like hell no one comes in right now and sees me like this, for it wouldn't be good if it got around that Pete Malloy was spotted sitting in the break room, his badge in his hand, bawling like a little baby. Sighing heavily and swiping at my eyes with the palm of my hand, I tuck the leather folder back into my breast pocket. I pick up the letter, the paper rattling a bit in my shaking hands as I stare at the words before me once more.

_Dear Captain Grant,_ it reads. _I, Peter J. Malloy, badge #744, serial #10743, am hereby formally tendering my resignation as a sworn full-time police officer for the city of Los Angeles, effective as of tomorrow's date of February 22, 1968._ Below that brief sentence is my printed name, then my signature verifying that the letter is authentic.

The words swim in front of me for a moment as I realize the enormity of what this means for me, leaving my job so suddenly like this without having another one lined up, which is pretty unlike me, for I like to have things planned out well in advance if I can. Unfortunately, I hadn't really given much thought to what I'd do for a job last night when I penned the letter, focusing only on getting it written and nothing else. Granted, I've got enough stashed away in my savings to tide me over until I do get something else, but I wonder with a dart of fear just what exactly I'll DO for a job, since being a cop is really the only career I've ever had, outside of factory work. Pressing fingers to my temples, I try to scour away the panic that begins to thrum in my blood once more, knowing I should feel relieved and confident of my decision, having thought long and hard on it over the last few days, but instead I feel…I feel…like I'm making the biggest goddamned fucking mistake in my life that I've ever made, one that I'll live to regret in the end.

_Oh, but que sera sera, Pete, isn't that your motto that you live by? Whatever will be, will be?_

My hands still shaking slightly, I carefully refold the letter and slip it back into the envelope, licking the flap this time and finally sealing it and my fate shut with determined finality. Glancing at the break room clock I realize that I no longer have time to drop the letter off at Grant's office before I get changed into my uniform, so I'll have to wait and drop it off after roll call and before I get out on the street. Standing up from the table, the letter clasped tightly in my trembling fingers, I go over to the break room door, pausing a moment as I cast one last glance around the empty room, my shoulders slumped, feeling hollow and empty and depressed instead of elated and relieved at what I'm about to do. I glance down at the envelope, realizing that when my fellow officers and friends find out what I'm planning on doing, they'll be shocked as hell, for it seemed a given I'd retire out as a cop and no one would imagine that I'd just so willingly walk away like this…

Least of all ME.

But maybe I'll get lucky and word won't get out until after I'm already gone, for Mac and Val are the only two that know of my intentions so far, and they agreed last night not to tell anyone I was quitting until after I'd already left. And hell, who knows, maybe my fellow officers and friends will actually be relieved to see me leave the force, especially since I broke one of the main tenets of police work, that of keeping my partner safe, managing to get Howie Parker murdered on my watch, my own carelessness killing him just as much as the shotgun blast did. And no one wants to be paired up with a man like that, fearing that they would be the next one to fall victim to his negligence and lose their life. Drawing in a deep breath and letting it out in a sigh, I close my eyes for a second, pinching the bridge of my nose, then I straighten my shoulders and shove open the break room door, steeling my resolve as I head down the hallway towards the locker room, the taste of my decision like bitter ashes in my mouth.

_Because tonight's the night that I finally walk away from my seven-year career as a police officer for the city of Los Angeles, putting on the uniform and the badge for the very last time._


End file.
